


In you I wrap a thousand onward years

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Silmarillion Prompts [39]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Time, Happy Snuggling, M/M, Sad Snuggling, The kind of snuggling you get in tragic but beautiful Elf/Man relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From first times to last times, some intimate moments between Finrod and Barahir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In you I wrap a thousand onward years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nisiedraws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisiedraws/gifts).



> 0\. I tried, honestly, to write a fic about these two that wasn’t influenced by one of my favorite art pieces in the world, [‘still-life with Finrod as sad burrito’](http://goldenhallofmeduseld.tumblr.com/post/103651662751/barahir-and-finrod), but instead I wrote this.
> 
> Three times Finrod was a burrito and one time Barahir was.
> 
> (1-3 are funny and light. 4 is not. Mea maxima culpa.)

**1.**

It was not a ceiling Barahir had ever imagined waking to stare at.

He lay rigid under sheets finer than any fabric he had ever seen, eyes fixed on bed hangings four times as luxurious as his mother’s finest gown, and prayed he would do nothing so disastrous as fart under the fine sheets.

He wondered if he had drooled in the night.

He chanced a dart of the eyes to his left, where a golden head was resting on the pillow beside him. He couldn’t make out much more than a tangle of flaxen hair though before he blushed brick red and stared at the ceiling again.

He couldn’t believe himself; barely past his manhood and laying in bed beside an Elven King, hopefully not farting in his Elven sheets. He had never felt so young and awkward and out of place – then he flashed quickly to some of what they had done the night before and felt considerably more mature, if not downright aged, though no less awkward.

He hadn’t known one could put a tongue to such uses, much less in such places.

He shifted slightly, realizing the blankets were almost off him, and tried to tuck the sheets more snugly around his exposed right thigh but they were pulled taut. This time he turned so that he could more clearly see the figure beside him, and saw that the King was so thoroughly wrapped in blankets that only the curls of his long hair were visible. The lion’s share of the blankets were tucked so snugly around him it looked as though he had been swaddled.

“My lord,” whispered Barahir.

Finrod slept on, his bundled shoulders rising and falling with each peaceful breath.

Timidly, Barahir reached out a hand and let a lock of the king’s hair curl around his finger. As he turned onto his side, he realized there was a dull, satisfied ache in his lower body, and his cheeks heated again as memories played before his eyes.

“My lord,” he whispered, a little louder, and tightened his thighs against his rising ardor.

“Mmm.” Finrod half unrolled from his bundle, and bright eyes blinked at him. “Oh, I am sorry. Have I taken all the blankets again? Terrible habit of mine, but it is hard to shake the glaciers from one’s subconscious…” He yawned and half unraveled himself from the blankets, each inch of his bare body that emerged lending fuel to Barahir’s growing fire. “And how are you doing this fine morning?”

Barahir, forgetting all awkwardness in the face of Finrod’s naked body, grabbed him and showed him that he was very well indeed.

 

**2.**

Barahir tore at his hair and paced.

“I told you we should not have done this!”

Finrod, wrapped in a silk robe and curled into a chair, waved a weak hand at him. “My dear, please stop making such a scene.”

“Is this my curse?” Barahir apostrophized the ceiling, and gestured furiously towards his groin. “That I could cause such harm to one so precious with something so – ”

Finrod attempted to uncurl, grimaced, and grabbed Barahir by the arm. “Barahir, I will be quite capable of walking in no time.”

“Never again,” said Barahir, tears in his eyes. “I do not care how you beg me, how you display yourself on all fours so beguilingly, how you spread your thighs and beckon –

“Goodness,” said Finrod. “I _am_ good.”

“ – I shall not yield to the temptation to use my curse upon you!”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Finrod began, and then looked distracted. “ ‘The Curse’. Hmm, rather an interesting epithet. I know there are those who choose to name their manhoods, but generally it is something less depressing…” He shook his head and shifted again, this time more successfully suppressing his wince of discomfort. “Dear boy, I promise you it was quite worth it.”

“I’m getting a healer,” said Barahir dramatically, and strode from the room.

Some time later, after Edrahil had arrived with the healer and Finrod had dismissed her gently, Edrahil lingered, an eyebrow raised at his lord’s careful posture as he sat wrapped in his sleep clothes in a high backed chair.

“My lord, did you bite off more than you could chew again?”

“Edrahil,” said Finrod, smiling dreamily. “Let me tell you something about Men…”

 

**3.**

“We need to break camp.”

“Five more minutes,” murmured Finrod, tightening the blankets around his shoulders.

“My dear royal ass,” said Barahir, “if you do not get out of my bedroll, soon enough someone will be along to break down this tent with you inside it.”

“You have gotten far less deferential with age,” said Finrod, cracking open one eye and regarding him.

Barahir, who in addition to a decrease in deference was more rawboned and weathered than when he had first met Finrod, shrugged. “You are less intimidating when one knows that you have a softness for wool blankets and long lie-ins.” He nudged Finrod. “Lazy, you are. Do the other Elf folk know?”

“Do the other Men folk know you have at least five white hairs to go with the black between your legs now?”

“That’s it,” said Barahir, and rolled to his feet, hauling up the bedroll, with Finrod in it, as he went. He strode out of the tent, his arms full of bedding and long Elf body, calling, “We’ll be in the road in the next hour, someone pack up my tent – I’m headed to the river to wash some vermin out of my blankets.”

 

**4.**

“Do you remember – ”

“Yes.”

“No, but do you remember – ”

“Hush, my love.”

“Do you remember how I carried you, like this, off a battlefield, long ago?”

“How could I forget?”

“I held you in my arms – ” Barahir’s voice broke off with a wet, wracking cough. His lips were wet, and he licked them to taste iron. “ – I held you in my arms like this, and noticed how strong you felt, and yet so delicate.”

“I have only ever appeared delicate,” said Finrod tenderly. “You know I am not so breakable. Less so, than you.”

“And yet you broke, that day.”

“And you carried me.”

“Yes. Like this.”

“Yes,” whispered Finrod, and held him closer.

“This is not real, is it,” said Barahir, staring at the dark sky. There should be stars in it, he felt certain, but instead there was only darkness, a darkness so deep he could not tell if his eyes were open or closed. “It cannot be. You are not here, in this place with me. You cannot be.”

“Does it matter what can be, or what cannot?”

Barahir pulled at the rough blanket that was wrapped tightly around him until he realized that one of his hands was not doing what he ordered it. He released the knotted rags and let them fall like a shroud over his body.

“I am glad you are here with me,” he whispered, tilting his head against Finrod’s breast. “Here at the end of all things.”

“I keep my oaths,” said Finrod, laying his lips to Barahir’s brow, and with gentle fingers, slid Barahir’s eyelids shut over sightless eyes.


End file.
